Connection
by the-fraulein
Summary: preRENT. And with all of his perfection came an irregular amount of dissatisfaction. UPDATED with chapters 10 and 11 on 4.30.06.
1. Chapter One

**Disclaimer: Totally don't own RENT  
Author's Note: **This is preRENT and will be Mark/Roger eventually. For right now it's just friendship. The rating will also go up. If you're still around after all that, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy.

* * *

**Connection – Chapter One**

Another boy might have been angry. Another boy might have gone over there, perhaps even hit one or both of them. And another might even have cried.

But Mark didn't do any of these things. Mark lifted his camera and took a picture of Nanette kissing another boy under a tree in front of their high school, and then he began his walk home.

It wasn't that he didn't mind, because he certainly did, and it wasn't because he had been expecting it, because he hadn't been. But watching Nanette kiss someone else forced the part of himself that felt completely out of his mind. A few minutes later, Mark couldn't even remember what or how he felt while standing in front of the school and watching. He remembered being there, and he obviously knew quite well that it had happened.

But that was just it, really. It had happened and he had accepted it and was moving on. He didn't think he possessed the emotional stamina to feel what he was sure had been gripping tightly around his heart watching his girlfriend standing on her toes to reach the lips of another, her arms around his neck and his hands in her back pockets.

No, Mark really didn't have the energy for that.

He turned his camera over in his hands, adjusting his backpack. He had a car, but somehow the short distance between his home and the school seemed to be a wasted trip in a car, unless the weather was bad. He wasn't sure what he was looking for on these walks. He didn't even need the time alone. And it wasn't as though he couldn't pay for the gas money. Maybe he just liked to walk. He wasn't really sure.

He mused that the world seemed to be a very dismal place today, even though the skies were clear enough, the temperature mild, and the breeze just warm and comforting enough without being overbearing. It all made for a wonderful day.

Mark was, however, somewhere else entirely.

He thought perhaps that he would call Nanette later, and see if she wanted to catch a movie. And then he remembered that Nanette probably wouldn't be home tonight. She seemed to have more pressing issues on hand than spending time with her boyfriend.

So Mark took a picture of a tree, without an unfaithful girlfriend beneath it, and continued walking home. He could catch a movie by himself, maybe. Or maybe he'd just start making his own.

His mother swooped on him immediately, routine as usual, when he came through the front door. She pushed a plate of food at him, told him to brush his hair, asked for clothes to be washed and reminded him to do his homework tonight instead of waiting until Sunday. Mark took the plate and agreed to all of the terms before retreating to his room. He set the plate down on his desk along with a few schoolbooks and his camera. If he finished the film in the camera this weekend he could start developing on Monday. Mark mostly just wanted to go out that night, drive around and take some pictures. See a movie. Maybe talk to a few strangers.

But he ate the fruit from his mother and did his math homework first. It was nearly six when he finally prepared to leave, picking up his camera and taking a jacket. Mark turned up the radio in the car, banging the steering wheel in the wrong rhythm and singing along in a separate key. The only way to heal was to forget and the only way to recover was to ignore.

* * *

His social life was plentiful. Friends, acquaintances, band mates, girlfriends. Rivals, competition, groupies, fans. He was only 18 and already his personal connections alone held endless opportunity.

His parents were of the casual sort, and this pleased him. Since high school they had given him freedom and space, but were always hanging in the background ready to jump in and be concerned if need be.

He did well in school. His band had a following. There were whispers of big time gigs in the city. There was always talk of someone knowing someone who knew someone. Connections and possibilities.

Roger would have been the first to say he had everything. But he would have endlessly denied that he had any sort of problem. Even when he was faced with it head on in the mirror every morning.

With the friends came the freeloaders and the fakes. With the band came the pressure. With the girlfriends came insecurity.

With the talent came hours of dedication. With the grades came sleepless nights. With the big time came inadequacy.

And with all of his perfection came an irregular amount of dissatisfaction.

Safely tucked away from his social life, Roger liked to let down the exterior wall. He felt so exposed walking around another town or even New York City. He didn't have to smile, he didn't have to act. It was just him, taking a walk. He didn't have deadlines for school projects. He didn't have three new songs to learn by the weekend. He didn't have a new girl for the week to amuse or spend time with. He could just walk around with his hands in his pockets. He had his time to think, and he had his time to exist and only during these times could he accept that where he was wasn't where he wanted to be.

Roger used to imagine that he was just sacrificing for his own benefit. He gave up hours to practice because he wanted to be a musician. He did well in school so he would have the intellectual capability to write his lyrics and to live in the world. He kept his friends happy because they were supporting him. But it was the benefits of these sacrifices that were starting to drag him down.

With the social life came gigs. With the gigs came parties. With the after parties came nameless girls. With nameless girls came nameless drugs. With nameless drugs came moments of feeling absolutely wonderful.

And in those moments, Roger didn't really feel much of anything at all, let alone insecure or afraid. He just felt good. And that was what it came down to in the end.


	2. Chapter Two

**Disclaimer: Totally don't own RENT**

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**Connection – Chapter Two**

Mark didn't know exactly what prompted him to actually speak to his photo subject. One moment he'd only been innocently snapping a few pictures of the sad boy, engrossed in his defeated posture, his sore, red eyes, the small little frown crossing his handsome face. For a moment Mark's eyes couldn't look past the tight jeans, the new leather jacket, perfectly faded shirt beneath. One moment he was wondering whether or not that was eyeliner and the next he was beside the other, strangely tempted to reach out and touch the mess of bleached blond hair.

The sore, red eyes fixed on his own and an odd expression floated inside them. He blinked a few times, sniffed and then grinned.

"Hey…" he managed, before the façade crumbled and he sighed and looked away. Mark realized after a long silence that reaching out might have been the right thing to do. So he did. He dropped his bag on the ground and sat on the bench beside the other boy, almost missing the small smile that for a moment replaced the frown. There was still silence between them, each one willing the other to speak first, but neither really minded when the only sound remained the city around them.

"What's the camera for?" Roger's voice came hoarse and tired. His sidelong glance was met halfway by Mark, who took a moment to force a smile.

"I was just, taking some pictures. I like to do that, take pictures, I mean." In comparison to Roger's throaty whisper, Mark's voice came forward and high. He shrugged after his statement, turning the camera over in his hands. "I took your picture a few times."

Maybe Roger felt that Mark was embarrassed at being caught, or he might have thought he was wasting Mark's time since he had decided to sit on the bench. Either way, Roger muttered an apology laced with reassurance. The words jumbled together, but Mark had understood the meaning and shrugged in response. Somehow this worked as a valid method of communication.

"Don't you…" Roger was sure he'd seen this boy before.

Mark nodded. "Same high school."

There was a moment where Roger appeared to look guilty, which he recovered from by letting an honest smile stretch across his face.

"Why aren't you, I don't know, somewhere right now?" The sarcastic edge that had unintentionally creeped into his own voice made Mark frown.

In response, Roger surprised both of them by laughing. He looked down at his shoes, ran a hand back through his hair.

"They don't," he sighed. "They don't get it." Roger muttered. "But you… I think you just _get_ it."

* * *

He could have been home practicing. In fact, he should have been.

He could have been doing homework. In fact, he should have been.

But Roger had found something that he wanted to do, instead of feeling obligated to be doing.

In thirty minutes they had hardly spoken to each other. In an hour they were exchanging glances and grinning like children. In two hours they'd shared a cheap cup of coffee and now, well into their third hour, Roger and Mark were old friends.

Life stories didn't need to be exchanged, memories weren't begging to be built. Small talk had never been an issue and awkward pauses in conversation were covered by their need for each other's company. Roger might have mentioned the drugs. Mark might have mentioned the girlfriend.

Roger did talk about his music. He gestured for Mark, explaining the want and the need to be doing what he loved more than waking up every morning. He would sigh and smile and grin and pout and beg to be understood when he said that he loved it too much for it to be taking him this direction. He was hindered by the pressure of pleasing everyone around him. Roger confessed that he didn't want to be a rock star. He just wanted to play his guitar and write love songs.

"Who are you writing love songs for?" Mark teased him, slipping coins in the vending machine for a couple of Cokes.

Roger slumped against the wall and closed his eyes. He mumbled something under his breath and then shrugged, accepting the can when it was held out to him, the blue eyes behind it still taunting him carefully. He snapped open the can with a grin in response to the prodding.

"I'll write a song for you." Roger offered. "Only for you and no one else could ever hear it."

Their usual silence reigned, dappled with nudges and smiles and physical teasing. Roger was almost pulled off balance when Mark grabbed him around the shoulders and held up his camera, positioning them correctly while they both shared a mutually gratified grin.

"You can have this roll of film." Mark offered in return, making sure to meet Roger's eyes so that he would catch the significance of this.

The action wasn't necessarily wasted, but Roger had already known.


	3. Chapter Three

**Disclaimer:** Don't own RENT.

* * *

**Connection – Chapter Three**

Girls studying in the library, their brows furrowed, fingers mid fumble over a page turn, pretty pouts turned down into frowns.

Cindy with her favourite book, the cover beaten into a torn and frayed mess, smiling patiently.

Mark's parents eating dinner, his mother watching his father with sad eyes, her fingers wrapped around her glass for comfort.

Three shots of a girl waiting beneath a light post smoking a cigarette in the city.

A young man picking up papers from his ripped bag on a busy street, his cheeks flushed, biting his lip and not meeting anyone's eye.

Nanette playing piano. Nanette fixing her hair in the mirror. Nanette blowing kisses and smiling with small, cold eyes.

Nanette kissing boys that weren't Mark under trees.

City people. Intellectuals, punk rockers, old buildings, new buildings. The culture of the city.

Roger looking melancholy. Roger wiping at his eyes. Roger looking miserable.

Roger and Mark grinning together, meant for each other from the start, as Mark's camera caught its owner's face on film for the first time.

Roger grinned down at the pictures in his hands. He sifted through them once more with an arm thrown around Mark's shoulders, pulling him close enough for Mark to feel the wet smudge left on his temple from Roger's hair gel. Mark didn't mention it. It wasn't the first time something went unsaid between them.

* * *

Two in the morning on a school night Roger called Mark in a blind panic, the sound muffled by heavy music in the background and a new timbre of uncertainty ringing in his voice. He stammered a few times, and in the end resorted to simply giving the address and begging to be picked up. Risking much more than he liked to think about, Mark stepped lightly past his parents' room and quietly made his way out of the house. 

The night air was cold, hard on the lungs, as Mark started his car and drove toward the party. Not a single star lit the black sky, forcing the world into an eerie darkness that didn't sit well with him.

The party was still raging, teenagers lumped together, laughing, drinking, kissing, smoking and posing. Twirling in their haze they all moved together as one entity of youth and all of its vices. Roger was huddled near the phone, grey-green eyes dazed beneath his mussed hair and confusion etched on his face. Mark can't speak before Roger has his arm around him and leads them out of the house. He wanted to question the situation, but somehow knew that Roger only shared in his own time.

Mark knew the last place Roger wanted to be was home, so he just kept driving.

"I don't even remember her name." Roger's voice came awkward and soft, mingled with a sullen need for the understanding he always received from his friend.

"I should be happy, right?" There was a silence that Mark was supposed to be filling with either a gesture or vocal reassurance.

"I want to take a shower." He muttered, turning away when Mark failed to respond.

Roger had a problem with experiences. He wanted all of them and regretted half of them afterwards. Anything to fill the space when Mark wasn't with him. It was lonely being surrounded by love.

The silence in the car stretched out and wound around both of them, heavy and full, loaded with the damage the night had done. Neither knew what to say and neither could find a good way to physically convey what needed to be said.

Mark found himself again believing that maybe reaching out was the right thing to do, so he dropped one hand from the steering wheel and cautiously laid it on top of Roger's, lacing their fingers together and pressing back when he felt the relieved hand grip onto his.

When Roger left, he wrapped his arms around Mark and left a small wet stain on his shoulder. Roger also had a problem controlling his emotions when he wasn't busy living up to his folklore.


	4. Chapter Four

**Disclaimer:** Don't own RENT.

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**Connection – Chapter Four**

High school stretched on, most days blurring easily into the weeks, time passing without a second thought. Mark bought himself a new camera, an 8mm nightmare of an antique that he began carrying around as an extension of himself. His first film subject was a cold, hungry and tired Roger who had wandered over to his house at nearly midnight after a show. They slipped past Mark's parents, mumbling an apology and barricaded themselves in his bedroom upstairs. After leaning his guitar against a wall, Roger dropped onto Mark's bed and closed his eyes for over an hour. Instead of mentioning the little bag of powder that had fallen out of Roger's guitar case, staring up at him accusingly from the floor, Mark made Roger a sandwich for when he woke up.

The mess Roger could make simply by laying down was unreal. Hair gel was staining Mark's pillow, wet and dirty boots dripped mud onto his bed and floor. Roger smelled like the clubs, the strong scent of cigarettes and cheap beer drenching the sheets beneath him. Mark didn't really mind, but he did turn his new camera on his friend. Not entirely sure what he was doing, Mark whispered a feeble commentary of the situation, smiling absently through the pauses. Roger's eyeliner was running down his face from the rain outside while he snored lightly, his mouth half open and his eyebrows knit together. Roger was never really fully content.

"I wrote you your song," Roger mumbled before opening his eyes. "You have to hear it and tell me if you like it."

Mark didn't need to hear it to like it, but he filmed Roger's slender fingers shifting over the neck of the guitar, bending and pulling and pressing hard enough to turn his nails white. His left hand was shaking enough to miss a note or two. A ballad as opposed to a recycled rock anthem for the generation, a reserved and cautious mellow voice, not his deafening rock scream.

The words sounded awkward for him, Roger wasn't practiced at writing love songs. Grey-green eyes were surprisingly shy and hidden beneath the crop of white blond mess.

"No one else." Roger muttered, hugging Mark lazily with one arm and eating his sandwich with the other.

* * *

Mark spent the weekend in a constant state of mental combat. For an action that seemed so absolutely appropriate at the time, that neither seemed to question, he was getting a good deal of emotional mileage out of it now.

Secrets were beginning to surface. Mark was a singer, albeit a terrible one, anytime he was alone. He drank cheap tea and read his mother's romance novels if he was sick, skimming the pages for the intimate, romantic and amazing sex the covers promised that was never delivered.

"They fell together upon the sheets"… end chapter.

Mark thought girls who smoked were beautiful, and wanted to date a girl who wore skirts. He didn't know, honestly, if it was because they looked classier or if there were dirtier implications associated.

Mark liked girls who kissed on the first date. He imagined he'd like girls who moved even faster. He hadn't met one yet.

Roger had an impressive collection of pornography, but he thought all of the girls looked cheap. Roger liked nice girls who wore clothes that covered them and smelled pretty. He liked girls who smiled shyly before they touched and who would giggle at lame jokes. Roger had yet to find a girl like this who liked him back.

Roger didn't think he was attractive. He bleached his hair because his band told him to, he grinned because it was part of the act. He chased the girls who chased him because he wanted one to fall in love with him. He liked attention because it made him feel good, and Roger liked to feel good.

Roger had lost his virginity at the first party Mark rescued him from. He had saved the experience he was sure would be the best to increase the payoff, but the whole ordeal was over in under five minutes and left him unable to deal with the disappointment. So he tried it some more and let sex become his new addiction, never admitting to anyone but Mark that it was his least favourite.

But Roger never admitted to Mark that he looked forward to afterwards when he could call Mark, begging to be rescued and Mark would never refuse.

Mark never admitted that what he really felt when Roger came stumbling over to his car, smelling of girl and sex was jealousy.

Roger tried to pretend that he wasn't hurt when Mark got back together with Nanette for a week. Faking sorrow at their final breakup proved difficult.

For as long as they could, they pretended to forget that Roger had broken the wall of friendship and kissed Mark. His hands grabbing two fistfuls of shirt and pulling the other boy against him, suffocating him with smells of cigarette smoke and sex, hair gel and beer. Hips pressed together, hands where they shouldn't be on a friend and deep, heavy breathing shared in the space between them when they broke apart. It was just another night of after-sex comfort for Roger. Just a kiss for someone he cared about instead of someone who wanted him. They were teenage boys, normal for them to respond to someone touching them, even if it happened to be a best friend instead of a pretty girl. Roger must have been drunk, after all. Mark was probably just tired. Roger passed out on the floor and was gone in the morning. Mark had to pretend he had something else to think about all weekend.


	5. Chapter Five

**Connection – Chapter Five**

Mark had to watch the dreams unravel as high school ended. Who had known, really, that Roger's drummer had gotten himself a full ride to some college in California? The band started auditions for a new drummer just as their bassist took a job with his father's company.

When the band broke up, the someones who knew someone who could make them someones disappeared overnight. The gigs went to the rivals. The fans flocked to the new big thing. The girls found a new target. The talent couldn't keep Roger sane when the grades failed to get him the scholarships he needed to pay for college.

By graduation, Roger was just another boy on the brink of manhood, staring down at the diploma and wondering what his life would bring him. The casual parents in the background could only watch the disappointment tear their son away from the world. They offered to pay for at least the first couple years at his third choice school, but Roger wasn't interested anymore. The real opportunities died with the band. The dream was over.

Roger tried to console himself with the idea that he had never wanted it anyway. All that attention, all the friends and the parties and the easy living, it had just been a bi-product of writing songs. But with it all gone, the future seemed so _uncertain_. Roger didn't like things to be uncertain.

Uncertainty filled him with fear. The world was too endless, the freedom too much and so little of it mattered. He didn't matter, and that was what caused him so much grief. He'd left no impression on the world and his chance to do so was gone. Roger had gone from a careless king to a bitter peasant in under a week.

Roger knew only one place left for comfort, but he avoided Mark in fear of the rejection and change of heart the rest of the world had already offered him. Mark was going to be leaving for college in the fall anyway. The only way to not be left behind was to be the one doing the abandoning. Instead of friendship Roger sought out the city.

Instead of sticking to the usual haunts, Roger ventured further. Experiences left and right. He tried not to be tempted, but the pull of the underworld was too much.

Pleasure was much easier to come by in a city. Not only were drugs just _out there_, readily available and much cheaper, but everyone did it. There weren't parents to hide the little bags from and no best friends who frowned in disappointment when his eyes were cloudy. Roger couldn't settle on just one at first. He tried everything.

He didn't think much of marijuana. It made him hungry and tired, the only things he couldn't really afford to be. There was cocaine of course, but cocaine was expensive if he wanted it to be pure and good. Crack made him dizzy and sick, but it also cleared his head and made him forget how lonely living in a cheap motel the past couple weeks had left him. Just once and only once had Roger bothered with acid. His trip left him wallowing in pain and anger for days, imagining his skin crawling with bugs that talked and the walls stretched and bent until they looked like Mark, chastising him for being careless. Other drugs left him disoriented for long periods of time, sweating and crying and screaming whether they were in his system or not, so Roger retreated to heroin, the old favourite.

When the dust settled on his high one night, he stumbled back toward his room, trembling and afraid. A girl took to him on the way back, her hands on his hips from behind, giggling in his ears and leaving lipstick marks on his neck. He let her follow him into the motel and into his bed, her cheap perfume smelling like dead flowers crushed beneath him and the long fake nails ripping into the skin on his back. She cut him a line of her cocaine afterwards, her dirty hair falling in damp strings around her face, her small breasts glowing under the yellowed glare of the single lamp in the motel room. When Roger woke up she was gone as if she had never been there at all, except for his missing wallet.

* * *

Despite everything, Mark wasn't surprised when Roger finally called him. They hadn't spoken in nearly a month, since Roger's band had broken up and he'd taken his savings and ran to the city. On the phone, Roger's voice came tired and soft, full of doubt and fear. Mark didn't really want to think about what he'd been doing since he'd left. He thought that honestly, it was probably better if he didn't know.

Any anger or hurt Mark might have felt toward his friend faded when his hesitant knock on the rotted wood of room #6 was answered. Roger fell against Mark, his arms clamped tight around his waist and his dirty hair against Mark's cheek. Mark guided him back into the filthy room, closing the door and sitting Roger down on the bed. Roger refused to let go, his solid grip almost unbearable and the stale smell of his matted, greasy hair taking Mark by surprise.

"Hey man, you need a shower."

Roger nodded against Mark's shoulder, tightening his grip. Mark could hardly breath as it was and winced. He nudged Roger and finally convinced him to release his hold. Roger pulled away, sitting on the edge of the bed with his elbows balanced on his knees and his head in his hands. Mark was starting to feel good about his decision of leaving his camera in the car. This wasn't a moment he particularly wanted to preserve.

Mark tried to ignore the red in Roger's bleary eyes, and the way his hands were shaking, wrapped around strands of the dirty hair. He smelled terrible, his clothes as filthy as the room and his hair. Mark recognized more smells he'd come to associate with the part of Roger he didn't like that much. He smelled like pot and vodka and sex and sweat and smoke. Mark tried to ignore the condom wrapper on the floor next to the bed. He didn't really want to think about when that had been put there or how it had gotten there. He tried to ignore the little bag of powder next to the lamp.

Instead of thinking, Mark pulled Roger up by his arm and pushed him into the yellow bathroom. He turned on the shower and gestured toward it, leaning against the sink and crossing his arms until Roger slowly began to comply, kicking off his shoes and removing his shirt. Mark searched the room for clean clothes and finally found a small backpack full of Roger's possessions. He left the clothes on the sink along with a small towel he'd found.

Roger stumbled out of the shower a few minutes later, his wet hair dripping in his eyes as he stared down at the clean clothes. He didn't dare let the hopeful smile cross his lips that he was desperately wanting to give in to.


	6. Chapter Six

**Connection – Chapter Six**

Mark made an attempt at a smile when a clean Roger emerged from the bathroom, damp hair leaving little trails of water running down the sides of his face. He dropped down on the bed beside Mark again. Without either of them speaking, Mark knew that Roger was sorry he didn't come to him sooner and Roger knew Mark wasn't angry. The boys sat in mutual silence, staring at their feet, at the yellowed walls, anything to avoid looking at each other.

"What am I supposed to do?" Roger moaned under his breath, looking over at Mark, begging him to have the answer. Mark usually did, after all.

Mark didn't have any words of reassurance, but he cautiously reached for his friend and when Roger noticed the offer he accepted, melding himself against Mark once more and gripping tightly to the material of his shirt. He buried his face in Mark's shoulder, their chests pressed together and Roger could feel the other heart beating against his own.

Mark smelled different than other people Roger let close to him. Girls smelled like smoke and cheap perfume, always. Mark smelled clean and safe. Roger didn't know what scents combined to make Mark smell like that, but he knew he liked them. Roger remembered the last time he'd let Mark see him this much in need. He'd tasted like the teas he always drank. Vanilla, usually. Vanilla always reminded him of Mark. Roger pulled away from Mark slightly and Mark loosened his grip to let him move.

"You still care about me?" Roger had failed to maintain any other relationships or friendship from high school. It didn't seem likely at this point that Mark was here for any other reason besides perhaps obligation. But Roger should have known that among his lost friends, there wasn't a single one who would have followed him this far.

"You know I love you, Rog." It was meant to be lighthearted, nothing more than jest between a pair of close friends. Mark punched him casually in the arm as he said it, grinning cautiously. Roger tried for a smile that faded as soon at it formed. He pushed back his wet hair.

"It was all a fucking joke."

Mark wasn't fully aware of the exact order or purpose of their next actions. He knew he put an around Roger's shoulders and he knew Roger leaned in but in the next moment, Roger's lips were pressed onto his, the faint stubble rasping against his face as Mark pushed on his shoulders and Roger fell backwards, pulling Mark down with him, his head and shoulders hanging precariously over the edge of the bed. Their lips met in rapid succession, pressed hard enough to bruise, leaving both breathless.

Frustrated with Mark's dominance, Roger pushed him off, gripping his wrists and pressing himself against the other boy beneath him. They fought against each other, each trying to maintain or capture the control, which in the end neither won. The wall of friendship they had already tested too far had evaporated, and when Mark pulled off Roger's shirt, they had to question if it had ever been there at all.

A minute later they had stopped making excuses for their actions and gave in.

* * *

Roger was sitting up on the bed, his back against the wall with his guitar when Mark opened his eyes again.

"We have to leave. My credit here is up." Roger muttered, not daring to look at him. He hadn't been able leave to avoid seeing Mark's reaction this time. The promise of rejection filled him full of regret.

Mark sat up and reached for his shirt he suddenly didn't remember taking off. Roger was still staring adamantly down at his fingers on the neck of the guitar. Mark pulled the shirt over his head and when Roger chanced a look up at his friend, Mark made sure to smile carefully.

"Are you mad?"

Mark didn't respond to the hesitant and small voice that sounded out of place coming from Roger. They watched each other for a moment, Roger holding tightly to his guitar to calm his shaking nerves, until Mark leaned in and gently brushed his lips against Roger's.

"I need you…" Roger managed to say weakly against Mark's lips, and Mark knew the rest of the sentence was _to love me_.

"I'm not…"

"Me neither…"

And Roger set his guitar down and lunged at Mark, attacking him with the fervor Mark had always hoped to find in a girl. Mark could scarcely move with Roger's hips pressed so firmly down against his own, and his lips already sore and swollen from earlier being taken again. Mark's hands traveled down Roger's arms, his fingers tightening over the firm skin. The fiction from the rough texture of their clothed lower halves doing something strange to increase the eroticism coursing through each of their bodies. Mark found quickly that raw sexual energy was the only thing really registering in his brain at that point.

It was, after all, fairly normal for young men to experiment. Mark knew half of the reason this was happening was simple teenage hormones. Roger just liked someone to react to him. After living in a constant search for love that had ended with his life open and empty, Roger didn't mind too much that it had lead him to rubbing against his best friend in a dirty motel room.

A devastatingly awkward silence lasts too long when they finally lay opposite sides of the bed, half clothed and emotionally and physically exhausted. Roger could hear Mark's subtle breathing, a large change from the choked rasp in his ear not long before. He tried to match his breaths with Mark's, his last attempt at finding a general source of connection before initiating the inevitable conversation.


	7. Chapter Seven

Disclaimer: Totally don't own RENT

* * *

**Connection – Chapter Seven**

In the final days of summer, Roger disappeared again. Life had never been more lonely for Mark, and somehow he knew Roger felt the same.

Before he left, their interaction, never particularly verbal, had dwindled down to muted exchanges of pleasantries. The subtle gestures, smiles, nudges that had defined a connection beyond their understanding were lost in the confusion of what they meant. Mark had to sadly admit that he hadn't noticed the silence until this new physical distance had been forced between them.

Mark sat on his new bed in his new dorm, miles away from the familiar. One hand instinctively clutched the old camera, and the other was flipping numbly through his new textbooks. Everything he needed to pursue a career in medicine. The constant grief he had been mildly aware of since he'd lost Roger welled up inside of him. Mark knew Roger shouldn't be out on his own. Mark knew what happened when Roger was left by himself. Mark knew how that itch to experience every possible pain and pleasure just burned inside of him at every moment.

The roommate came in with some friends. They ignored Mark and he extended them the same courtesy. He switched textbooks, opting for Biology this time. He frowned down at the pages, not really sure what any of it meant. The tiny text blurred before his eyes in a maze of black.

The semester dragged on. Mark attended class and did well. He took pictures and filmed when he was done studying. He made a few distant friends and drank tea while his roommate sweet-talked girls on the other end of the darkened room. Mark called his mother regularly and never missed a class.

He did, however, worry. He even went as far as calling Roger's house, his stomach knotting in guilt when Roger's mother mistook his awkward greeting for her son's voice and started crying with relief. For one fleeting moment, Mark considered lying to the woman to save her some grief, but he knew better than that. So Mark simply hung up, knowing now that there probably wasn't a soul from his old life who could tell him where Roger had gotten to.

Mark made a pass at a tall girl with long blonde hair, wearing a mini skirt and smoking near a coffee shop. She flicked ash in his direction, smiled coldly and looked him over. When he asked her name she crossed her arms and leaned against the building before responding. She didn't ask his.

The next night when Mark attempted to call the number she'd given him, he reached a local Chinese delivery place. Mark had a thing for fast girls, but sometimes the girls Mark liked were so fast, the relationship was over the moment they met.

* * *

His first night back in the city, Roger found a new world. Instead of drugs and cheap girls, he found underground punk music. He soon found out that these worlds fit very nicely together. He spent the night in a club, grinding and jumping with strangers as the noise of the band throbbed so loudly he was deaf a few hours in. The experience of being in an audience and not onstage was a new one.

A girl pulled him into the bathroom, dressed in the shortest skirt he had ever seen and a top made out of more safety pins than fabric. Slammed up against the wall, she had his pants open before he knew what was happening and a few moments later, the idea of thinking had left his mind altogether. He switched positions so that she was up against the wall, her breasts pressed against his chest, his hands under her ass and her legs around his waist. She left him alone, barely bothering to straighten herself up before simply walking out, his cum glistening on the inside of her thigh as he held the side of the sink to wait for the logical portion of his brain to group back together.

Roger knew that fucking strangers in dirty bathrooms without condoms was a bad idea. But he also knew that being alone was the worst feeling in the world. If anonymous sex brought him close to another person, he was alright with that. And if he closed his eyes and pretended the girl didn't smell like trash and sweat, the sex felt pretty damn good. And Roger liked to feel good.

He spent the next couple months in the clubs, feeding off of the energy from the bands and their fans. He slept in a different place each night, carrying around his little bag of clothes and the guitar. He saved whatever money he had until he absolutely needed it and stole anything else he needed to survive. Roger thought nothing of slipping out of restaurants without paying the check, or of tucking a box of condoms under his jacket.

But Roger thought about Mark more than he would care to admit. He knew his friend was off in college, studying to be a productive citizen. Studying to learn ways to leave behind needy boys with drug problems. Mark was off living the college life. Mark was probably loving it. Mark probably had a girlfriend by now. He probably had a new best friend who didn't disappoint him by showing up completely trashed and begging to go for a drive at 3 in the morning, as Roger so often had. Mark was probably having good sex with his college girlfriend, who was probably smart and funny and beautiful but aggressive enough to appeal to Mark. Roger knew Mark wasn't thinking about him anymore.

He called home one night, to hear his mother's voice. Hearing her son, Mrs. Davis cried openly in relief while Roger sat in silent shock until she asked him in a vague voice if he had called the previous day. Dragging himself out of the guilt he felt at leaving a mother with so much worry, he shook his head before remembering she couldn't see him over the phone.

"We thought it was you. It was a boy. Now that I think about it, he sounded nothing like you. I just hoped so much that you would call."

Roger smiled genuinely. He only knew one boy who would have been calling. When he hung up, Roger called a different set of parents.


	8. Chapter Eight

Disclaimer: Totally don't own RENT

* * *

**Connection – Chapter Eight**

Mark should have known. He really should have been expecting the late night phone call. He should have known the moment the phone rang. He should have expected to hear the hesitant hope in Roger's voice when he said that he was at a bus stop and had no idea how to get to the campus from there.

And maybe on some level, Mark did know, and he had expected it.

It was raining when Mark started walking and it only rained harder as time passed. By the time he could see Roger's thin body stretched out on his side on a bench fast asleep, no part of either boy was dry.

Mark picked up Roger's guitar case and gently pushed on his shoulder. Roger sniffed, let out a soft moan and opened his eyes, which were red, unfocused and glazed. Even though he looked high, his eyes sparked immediately with recognition and he grabbed at Mark's arm, clutching a fistful of fabric and staring up at his friend.

"I didn't think you'd come." Roger admitted, though Mark could easily have said the same thing to him.

Mark rolled his eyes, letting Roger grab onto him. They let the silence pass, eyes meeting in an awkward attempt at avoidance, uncomfortable in the face of more noise than either had heard in months.

With the rain stinging his eyes behind his glasses, Mark helped Roger up, staggering for a moment when Roger collapsed against him, arms flung tight around his waist, burying his wet head into Mark's soaked sweater.

"Come on." Mark urged, pressed Roger away. "It's cold."

Mark left one arm protectively around Roger's shoulders. Roger wrapped one of his instinctively around Mark's waist.

* * *

The roommate was out when Mark pulled Roger into his dorm room, which was fortunate considering the first thing Roger did was drop his bag and flop onto Mark's bed. Mark let a scowl pass over his features before hurrying over to Roger and pulling him off of the bed. He absently dug into his closet and pulled out some dry clothing, throwing them at Roger before pulling his own wet shirt over his head. Roger watched him, his heart and his pants tightening in reflex to seeing the familiar body, Mark's collarbones piercing out of his pale skin, perfect to be nipped at with eager teeth. When he turned around to reach for another shirt, Roger's eyes followed the curve of Mark's spine, imagining the other body beneath his, pressing desperate kisses into the smooth flesh, fingers laced around his abdomen, pressing them together, sliding apart and then back together, sticky from sweat.

Something in the back of Roger's overeager mind told him that initiating any further sex acts with the best friend he had already gone too far with could be detrimental to any relationship they had left. But Roger's body wasn't particularly interested in anything his mind had to say about the situation.

Dropping the clothes onto the floor near the bed, Roger reached out to Mark, wrapping one long arm around his chest and pulling Mark back against him. One short noise of protest was silenced when Roger pressed his lips onto Mark's neck, just beneath his chin. Mark's head tilted back, his hair tickling against Roger's chest as Roger's hands slid down Mark's belly, his fingers taking their time to press into the cold skin, coming to rest on Mark's hipbones and then slowly sliding beneath the waist of his jeans.

"Roger…" Mark's tone could have been pleasure. It could have been anger and it could have been fear. Neither boy really knew. Mark wasn't particularly sure what had brought them together, Mark leaning against Roger's chest, and Roger's hands down the front of his pants while his lips pressed their imprint onto every spare bit of the flesh on Mark's neck he could find, but after spending his first semester of college hitting on girls out of his league without any luck, Mark wasn't about to complain.

Roger turned him around, pressing Mark's back against the wall, and his lips against the prominent collarbone, pulling Mark's skin gently between his teeth, his fingers playing around Mark's waist, sliding down until he could grab Mark's ass through his jeans, shoving their hips together roughly and feeling Mark's hands tighten around his arms. Roger moved his lips back to Mark's neck, sucking at the skin behind his ear, pulling their bodies together.

Mark wasn't entirely uncomfortable at the present situation, but something itched inside of him. He pressed against Roger again, his short nails biting into the other boy's skin, then pushed him backwards. Roger stumbled a step back, his sore eyes sorry and hesitant before his knees hit the side of the bed and Mark was on him, pulling Roger's shirt over his head and threading his fingers through the damp mess of hair, bringing their lips together in the heat of wasted months of solitude and cautious avoidance. In all of Roger's imagined interactions, this was never a scenario he had planned out. In his mind, Mark was beneath him, his lips against Roger's ear, his legs around Roger's waist and Roger's fist tight around Mark's cock.

But somehow they ended up with Roger on his back, his fingers woven through Mark's hair, Mark's hands pressing his thighs down onto the bed and Mark's mouth wrapped around his cock, completely in control of every breath Roger drew.

For a moment Roger thought he should have been frustrated by his lack of dominance, especially when Mark pulled away too soon to dust light little kisses down Roger's chest and belly. If Mark liked them fast and Roger liked them nice, how was it that right now Mark claimed Roger's mouth, sliding their hips together in a sloppy rhythm and Roger was letting him? Roger knew he should have had enough when Mark slipped a finger between his legs. Mark knew he was going too far. Neither boy really cared.

Roger was asleep, snoring lightly with strands of his dirty, wet hair plastered across his face. Mark was resting against his shoulder, watching Roger's chest rise and fall and tracing his fingers absently along the lifelines of a thin arm. Together they smelled of sweat and sex and the hand lotion Mark kept near his bed. Roger turned on his side toward Mark, wincing in his sleep as he shifted his hips, the bruises of Mark's kisses darkening on his skin. Mark had an urge to shake Roger awake.

Mark liked girls who kissed on the first date. Roger liked nice girls who smelled pretty. But boys weren't girls.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Disclaimer: Totally don't own RENT  
Author's Note:** Chapter Ten isn't cooperating with me, but it has been too long since the last update. Enjoy for now.

* * *

**Connection - Chapter Nine**

The sunlight in the dorm was sparse, peeking in through the cracks of the bedsheets the roommates had stapled over their windows, only enough for Mark to make out the outline of Roger's nose and his slightly parted lips, only enough for a few strands of Roger's long blond hair to catch the light and gleam despite the dirt and sweat.

Mark was not entirely sure where he ended and Roger began, tumbled together as they were, legs meshed into a knot of flesh beneath the blanket. Roger's breaths came in little snores, soft and barely audible, coupled with the dull thud Mark felt in his ears of his heart pounding in his chest. Perhaps an unexpected situation for any boy would be to wake up terribly naked beside his best friend. Mark wasn't entirely surprised, but reluctant to admit his anxiety, though that feeling passed when Roger turned his head to press his nose into Mark's hair and exhaled deeply, pulling him closer.

Some distant part of Mark was pulling on his insides, twisting his gut with a fear of being discovered. But every other part of Mark was thinking of the nights he spent studying with a flashlight under the bedsheet while his roommate argued seductively with his girlfriends.

Mark shook Roger awake in another hour, the two of them stumbling together wrapped in the blanket toward the community shower, neither one really caring how indecent it was to be stopping to kiss in the hallway while only partially covered.

Mark pressed Roger up against the wall of the shower, dropping light kisses on his smooth chest and touching him just to feel. Roger was tall and too thin, cheekbones like razors and flat belly dusted with hair dampened from the water. Mark leaned into him and kissed his neck just to taste. His hands on Roger's arms, long muscles feeling hard and familiar and his hands on Roger's hips, sliding up his chest, just to know. When his hand dropped too low and his eyes flicked up to meet Roger's, it was just to see.

Two hours after dawn, Mark and Roger were down in the empty cafeteria, sharing coffee and counting change for a vending machine breakfast. Roger stared at his shoes, stared into the paper cup and stared anywhere but Mark.

"I was starting to wonder if I was dead." He admitted, finally looking up.

Mark didn't know if it was an apology, or a form of acceptance or even if Roger ever meant anything he said, but he understood regardless, because he always did.

* * *

The roommate came and went, and Mark and Roger watched movies in the dorm room, smelling themselves on the blanket and fighting silently over a single mug of tea. Mark wanted the taste, Roger needed the warmth.

When his head felt too heavy, Roger pulled the blanket away from Mark and fell asleep on his bed, and Mark noticed that without the smudged eye makeup Roger appeared almost human.

Roger was gone when he woke up and the room smelled horribly of cigarettes and dirt. Mark buried his nose in the blanket and waited it out, hoping his intuition would serve him right again and that Roger would come back on his own. He waited in silent anxiety for a few hours, squinting at the clock and rubbing his hands over his face until he left the door unlocked and went to class disheveled with his homework untouched.

In the evening Roger was on his bed, drinking vodka straight from the bottle, looking very much like hell with a bad bleach job, eyes unfocused and distant. Mark was getting tired of watching Roger destroy himself.

"Why don't you let me take this?" He held out a hand, his fingers begging as they wrapped around the neck of the bottle before Roger pushed him away.

"Come with me to New York." Roger said, as if nothing had happened.

And Mark no longer knew what to think about anything.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Disclaimer:** Totally don't own RENT  
**Author's Note:** So I think this qualifies as "M" by now. I probably should have changed the rating a few chapters ago. Two chapters today, kids. I only plan on one more after this, but it's possible there will be two.

* * *

**Connection – Chapter Ten**

Roger had stumbled back to the city on his own and the first thing he thought, when he found himself bedding rock groupies for a place to sleep every night, was that he should have just stayed with Mark. There was a certain amount of security in getting laid by the same person every night. Except that Mark wasn't exactly speaking to him at the moment.

It was early spring, though Roger would never have known outside of the calendar. The city was as gray and miserable as ever. Each girl in the long line of sex and pity was a copy of the previous one, skinny as hell with black holes of makeup for eyes and a bad nicotine habit. The first band he joined out of desperation played off-key punk anthems Roger penned by stealing from graffiti in public restrooms. Girls grabbed at his ankles on the stage and climbed up beside him, hindering his guitar playing by pressed their hipbones into his ass and leaving red trails from smoky lips on his neck.

Kisses tasted like alcohol after the show, as he pressed up against some pretty thing in an alleyway, and tried desperately to pretend she hadn't been throwing up in front of the stage from a bad trip last week right before screwing his bassist in the bathroom of the club.

"Can I call you?" He gasped, his lips against her neck as he finished, slowing unfolding his body from hers.

"I've got a boyfriend." She pulled her skirt down and adjusted one of her heels, ducking out from underneath his arms and swaying down the alleyway and out of sight.

Roger leaned against the wall, rubbing at the stain on his pants and wanting more than anything for someone to know where he was. He would need a hit in a few hours and he'd want a drink not long afterwards. He would have to find another girl if he wanted to sleep tonight or beg his drummer for the couch again. He fixed his pants and grabbed his guitar. There was just too much shit to worry about.

He closed his eyes and tried to remember a time when he wasn't constantly dirty, hungry and almost completely reliant on sex and drugs to survive. When he opened them he was standing on the curb under a bus stop. It all made too much sense and he just backed away.

* * *

Mark liked to think Roger would realize on his own that he was killing himself. He liked to hope that one day the phone would ring while he was studying and it would be Roger. He always held his breath when he came back to the dorm, hoping to find the long, thin body dirtying his sheets again. But the phone only rang on Sundays when his mother called and even the roommate was hardly ever hanging around. Mark filmed after classes and studied every evening, surviving on solitude and dry cereal. He took pictures of people when he wasn't filming and saved them in shoeboxes under his bed, trying to find meaning in his strangers, hoping beyond all hope that he would recognize someone in those faces.

When it wasn't enough he set up the projector he'd bought second hand and watched Roger practice his guitar, pretending they were in the same room, going about their inspiration together in the silent company.

Biology was making Mark sick. The more he groped for reasons to stay in college, the more he realized he'd never had one to begin with. College equated to awkward study groups where he seemed to be the only one not progressing. College was girls who liked to tease a bit too much and roommates who ignored him unless to hint he should spent the evening somewhere else. It was long nights reading textbooks while he stared longingly at the boxes of film and photography, begging for a night off to edit properly and write a screenplay. College had never shown him anything worth staying for.

Mark made himself tea and once he sat back down on his bed he kicked his Biology textbook onto the floor. He honestly didn't really care anymore.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Disclaimer: Totally don't own RENT  
Author's Note: **Thanks for reading.

* * *

**Connection – Chapter Eleven**

When Roger woke up he was face down in crusty pile of vomit he wasn't sure was his own. The vague memory of the night before floated behind his eyes, becoming clearer by the minute as his vision unclouded. It had all been a mistake.

He was on his fourth band playing back up guitar for a washed-up replica of his future self who wrote punk ballads about heroin. It was not how he wanted to be remembered.

He normally lived in a loft with about twelve other people, each of them desperately wanting to fulfill one dream or another. He typically slept with a girl named April who called her mother every weekend and came to the city to write poetry. It had been a long time since Roger had seen anything as beautiful as April sitting on the window sill in the early morning with a cigarette and a notebook.

But Roger hadn't been home in a few days. He had sent a postcard to his parents (_have a girlfriend and a band_) and one to Mark at Brown _( out to destroy myself_). He'd gone to his show, scored a hit from his dealer and gotten violently ill afterwards. The only remedy Roger knew for feeling terrible was heroin. He didn't realize until the moment he woke up now that heroin was probably what was making him sick.

Roger wasn't entirely sure he wanted Mark to receive that postcard. He figured leaving it as desperate sounding as possible was the best way to make Mark come save him without actually asking.

He stumbled more than once in the stairwell, praying to just find strength to drag himself up the rest so he could crash somewhere besides next to a dumpster. He wanted to see April again. April was soft and smelled nice and would read him her poetry while he strummed his guitar out of habit. She shared her cigarettes and her body and laughed louder than anyone he'd ever met. She wasn't the nicest girl ever, but he was convinced she was the prettiest.

The first time he saw her she looked up from her notebook with a cigarette between two fingers and a blush creeped across her pale cheeks. She smiled in a secretive girlish way and waited for him to make the first move. He told her he loved her before they even kissed.

But at the moment, April was pressing another man into the couch, her hand in his pants and her lips locked against his. Roger expected to feel something besides the floor when he fell to his knees. He didn't expect April to look over at him and smile before returning to Benny as if nothing had happened.

His anger flared sharply, but Roger was too tired and sick to act on it. Of course he had no claim on April. He had assumed a relationship because they'd slept together more than once. He should have asked her to be his girlfriend when he had the chance. But maybe she'd never expected that anyway.

And of course Benny didn't know that April was Roger's somewhat girlfriend. He'd only moved in the day before Roger left. The blame bounced among the three of them, leaving Roger uncertain of where to place it. All he knew at the moment was that he needed to throw up again.

* * *

_Out to destroy myself. _

Mark had probably never been more angry with Roger than at the moment he found the postcard, but it was the last push he needed to pack up a bag the day before finals and just leave for the city to search for the address Roger had left in addition to his message.

The first thing that seemed out of place about Roger's new home was the ambulance in front of the building. It was a good sized building, it was entirely possible that ambulance was for someone else, but it didn't stop Mark from breaking into a run and pushing his way over to the door of the building in time to see the stretcher being carried out. He started to collapse right there, despite the cop grabbing his arm and pulling him back up and away.

Of course Mark knew it was entirely possible that wasn't Roger. It could have been anyone. It didn't have to be him. The cop steadied him, leaning him against the wall.

"Who is it?" Mark begged him. "Who died?"

A man was yelling, crying and screaming and being restrained near the door, trying to reach the stretcher being loaded onto the ambulance. Mark pushed past the officer and dropped his bag to hurry over to Roger, who broke away violently when he saw Mark. Roger grabbed tight, pressing his face into Mark's neck.

"She's dead," he moaned. "She's dead."

Mark held him, gripping Roger just as tightly and slowly back tracking to pick up his bag before leading Roger past the scene and back into the building.

"You need to calm down." Mark told him, stepping over a man sleeping on the floor to lay Roger down on the couch.

Roger closed his eyes, knitting his brow and wrapped his arms around himself.

"I fucked up." He said as Mark knelt beside him and reached out to touch his hair.

"Yeah, you did. But you're gonna fix it now, Rog. It's gonna be okay." Mark pressed a kiss to Roger's hairline, tasting the sweat running down his forehead.

"I'm sick." Roger said. "From the drugs."

"You won't be soon. It's gonna be hard but…"

"No," Roger opened his eyes and sniffed, pushing Mark's arm away and angrily wiping at his face. "I'm sick." He reached into his pocket and shoved a crumpled piece of paper at Mark.


End file.
